


A Very Bad Idea Indeed

by suitesamba



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bad Ideas, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, John the teacher, M/M, Sherlock Watched YouTube videos, virgin!Sherlock implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 12:24:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11646510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: Sherlock's ideas always have negative consequences and John knows this. Yet time and time again, he suffers these consequences because he can't say no to Sherlock. But this time, when Sherlock wakes him up in the middle of the night demanding that John teach him how to kiss, the very bad idea may not be quite so bad after all.





	A Very Bad Idea Indeed

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone following Rosethorne, I really am working on it and you'll have a new chapter within a few days. Promise. ♡

It was a bad idea. A very bad idea indeed.

This didn’t surprise John – Sherlock frequently had bad ideas that led to injury, loss of sleep, damage to the flat and acute embarrassment – mostly on John’s part.

John was accustomed to it, even expected it. There were always – absolutely _always_ repercussions to Sherlock’s ideas.

Recent ideas involving indoor beekeeping, dental floss for sutures and an electric drill attachment for smashing potatoes had all resulted in disaster, though the dental floss catastrophe could possibly have been averted with the use of plain rather than cinnamon-flavoured floss. Thus, when Sherlock pushed open John’s bedroom door very early one Saturday morning, wide awake and most insistent that he get up, John rolled over, put his pillow over his head and said “Go away, Sherlock.”

As expected, Sherlock did not go away. Since he’d first broken the unwritten rule that John’s bedroom was his sanctuary and the door, when closed, should be considered closed for a reason, he’d invented even better and more creative excuses for invading John’s privacy, though he learned his lesson when he requested, at two o’clock in the morning, that John run out to Tesco for milk. John had, indeed, left the flat to purchase milk that night, and had returned and poured an entire gallon of it over Sherlock’s head before returning to bed.

“John – I hate to ask you since you seem to be about to fall asleep….”

“I’m not about to fall asleep,” John groaned. “I was _sleeping_. You woke me up when you came in here and turned on the light.”

“Because I have a question,” Sherlock clarified. “And I need your help.”

“No.” John punched his pillow and buried his face in it, wrapping the ends up to cover his ears.

“I need to learn to kiss,” Sherlock said, sitting on the edge of John’s bed. He shook John’s shoulder. “I need you to teach me. Regular kissing and tongue kissing, please.”

John screamed into the pillow. The pillow absorbed most of the sound, but Sherlock must have sensed John’s displeasure with his request. 

“It won’t require too much of your time – I promise. I’m a quick study, and I’ve watched YouTube videos to learn the proper techniques. I should only need to practice with you for a short while to achieve proficiency.”

John bit the pillow to avoid the string of profanity that threatened to spill from his mouth. He counted to five then rolled over, squinting at Sherlock through the bright light of the ceiling fixture.

“Who are you planning to kiss?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“So you’ll help me?” Sherlock stood and glanced around. “Where should we do it, then?”

“Just answer my question,” John insisted, closing his eyes again. “Who are you planning to kiss, Sherlock?”

“Besides you, you mean?”

John slowly opened his eyes so that he could level an intense and disapproving gaze at his flat mate and best friend who was not someone with whom he practiced French kissing, or any other kissing, for that matter.

“Fine. I’ve met someone. Someone with a deep interest in and passion for forensic science. Someone who is interested – apparently – in _kissing_ , and I don’t want to appear the fool. She has far more experience that I do and ….”

“Wait.” John pushed himself up on his elbows. “Please don’t even tell me you’re stalking Lestrade’s sister again.”

Sherlock managed to look affronted.

“Stalking is hardly the term I’d use, John.”

“She’s sixty, Sherlock. She’s been married and divorced three times. She has four children, for Christ’s sake! The oldest is nearly as old as you!”

Sherlock frowned at John’s outburst. “You date all sorts of unsuitable women. The last one – Eva, was it? – was clearly out of your league yet you persisted in trying to bed her for three weeks until she not only stopped returning your texts but changed her phone number and started wearing a dark wig.”

Unfortunately, Sherlock was spot on about that one.

“Fine – so you want to kiss Helen. So kiss her. Why do I need to be involved in this? You kissed Janine, didn’t you? Besides, Helen knows you. She can’t possibly think you know what you’re doing with women. Just wing it!”

Sherlock didn’t even pretend to be insulted. “I don’t just need assistance with _kissing_ , John. I need to practice _tongue_ kissing. It isn’t quite as easy practicing with my hand. I can stick my tongue in between my thumb and forefinger, but there’s no tongue to reciprocate.”

John, who had himself, as a teenager, practiced kissing his own hand, had to admit that Sherlock had a point.

“Sherlock – are you sincerely interested in a relationship with Helen or do you just want to get inside her lab?”

It might sound crazy, but John Watson had been living with Sherlock Holmes long enough to legitimately question the other man’s motives.

“I don’t need to stick my tongue down a woman’s throat to curry favour with her,” snapped Sherlock. 

“You shouldn’t stick it down her throat _ever_ ,” John retorted. “First of all, it’s not long enough. And if you’re that far back in her throat, you’re doing a tonsillectomy, not kissing her.”

“See? You’ve just proven what an excellent resource you’ll be. A doctor _and_ an educator.”

“No.” John held his ground. “Ask someone else. Ask Greg.”

“Lestrade? Oh, certainly. ‘Lestrade, could you teach me how to French kiss so I can snog your sister?’ Really, John?”

“Molly.” _Anyone but me._ John sincerely didn’t know if he could survive a snogging session with Sherlock. Sherlock did everything - _everything_ \- so over the top. He’d ruin it for John. Every single person he’d kiss after kissing Sherlock would fall short on the kissing scale. His sex life would effectively be over. Besides, after Sherlock squashed his initial interest in a roll between the sheets years ago, John had managed to shove all thoughts of sex with Sherlock into a closed and locked room. Not a Mind Palace, exactly. More like a Mind Cupboard.

“Molly?” Sherlock seemed more surprised at the idea than intrigued by it. “Why would I want to kiss Molly?”

“Right – you already have access to the morgue at Bart’s,” John said. “Anyway, I still don’t understand why you want to kiss….”

“Honestly, John! – do my motivations really matter?” Sherlock asked, turning the tables. He stood and paced to the door, whirling in the doorway, bathrobe not quite as dramatic as the coattails of his Belstaff. “You’re my friend, John. I’m told friends help friends. I’m simply asking for a few minutes to practice what I’ve observed so I can make a good showing with Helen tonight. Is kissing me really such a repulsive thought? I did teach you to dance, did I not?”

“We agreed not to talk about that, Sherlock.” John had resolutely put the entire sordid affair surrounding his wedding, his assassin wife and the child that wasn’t into a locked box in the back of that same Mind Cupboard. And in a file folder in that box was the dancing lesson when he’d had what could only be called an inconvenient reaction to Sherlock’s proximity.

“No, we agreed not to talk about your marriage. We didn’t agree not to talk about me teaching you to waltz. At great personal expense, I might add. You nearly broke my toes.”

And that did it. John felt it happening before it actually happened, but in the end he was powerless to stop it completely. The thought of Sherlock hopping around the sitting room on one leg, clutching his injured foot while John chanted “One, two, three, one, two, three” would make him laugh at the Queen’s funeral.

He smiled. It was a twisted, contorted smile because he tried so hard to prevent it. Sherlock, of course, noticed.

“Excellent! Well, let’s get started then!”

Sherlock was back on the bed in a trice. “Do you want to be on top or on the bottom?”

“Are you insane?” John kicked off the covers as effectively as possible, given that Sherlock was sitting on them, and scrambled off the other side of the bed. He grabbed his jeans off the floor and pulled them on before Sherlock could suggest conducting this experiment – as John was absolutely convinced this had nothing to do with kissing Helen at all – in their pants. “You don’t bring her to _bed_ to kiss her the first time. And just to be clear, before we –”

Sherlock, for his part, seemed less willing to take direction than John had hoped. He remained seated on the bed, facing the door, and he spread his legs as John opened his mouth to deliver his standard disclaimers and warnings.

“Yes, yes, I know. You don’t make a practice of kissing men in general or your flat mates in particular, or of educating anyone on sexual practices. You are not suited to do so, and this is a bad idea – a very bad idea indeed. It isn’t to be repeated ever again or talked about outside of this flat and preferably not at all, even between the two of us. Kissing is an art, not a science. Every mouth is different, every tongue, every set of lips. Even the size and shape of the nose will affect angle and placement of lips. You are going to brush your teeth first, aren’t you? You’ve been in bed at least four hours and I don’t recall you doing so before you stumbled home last night. I really don’t….”

“Shut up.” 

John had been stepping closer as Sherlock spoke until he was standing no more than a foot in front of him. He was taller than Sherlock in this position, which worked well, given that he was accustomed to kissing women, the majority of whom were his height or a bit shorter. 

Jesus, this was weird. It wasn’t the same as learning to dance – as intimate as that had been, it hadn’t involved the level of intimacy involved in kissing, despite the inconvenient erection that had nearly upset the apple cart in John’s head and had been sequestered in the locked folder in the locked box in his pretend Mind Palace.

Sherlock had stopped talking and had raised his eyes to stare at John.

John couldn’t help it. Instinct took over when Sherlock looked at him like _that_. He wetted his lips.

Right. Right. Keep it educational, he reminded himself. This isn’t a snog in an alley.

“Start slowly,” he said, his voice not as level as he wanted it to be. “Cup her face with one of your hands, or stroke her cheek lightly. Don’t just dive right in for the kiss. You want to be sure she wants it, so you need to pick the right moment. Read her body language.”

“You may assume I want it, John, despite what my body language might be telling you,” Sherlock said, his voice low and unmistakably sultry. 

Sherlock’s body language was telling John quite the opposite. Despite his sultry, come-hither voice, which he’d surely picked up from the YouTube videos he’s mentioned and which had an immediate and unwelcome effect on John’s traitorous cock, his posture was ramrod straight, his hands rested awkwardly on his thighs, and he was staring intently at a spot beyond John’s left shoulder.

John blew out a frustrated breath. “Look, Sherlock, this isn’t a solo performance, you know. I may as well go back to sleep – ”

Sherlock raised on arm to grasp John’s wrist. “No – don’t. I’m ready. It’s just that you – you…you don’t have quite the same effect on me that Helen does.”

“Of course I don’t, you idiot. I’m a man.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, his voice barely audible.

“And might I remind you that this wasn’t my idea,” John continued. “ _You_ asked me. _You_ woke _me_ up.”

“Right.” Sherlock blinked, rolled his shoulders, then dropped his hand from John’s wrist and rested it on John’s hip instead. “Like this, then?”

 _Yes. Exactly like that,_ John thought as Sherlock’s thumb dipped inside the waistband of his jeans and his fingers grazed the swell of his arse.

“If you haven’t kissed her yet, you shouldn’t grope her arse,” John said with a sigh. Still, he was disappointed when Sherlock immediately removed his hand. “Put your hand on her shoulder, caress the back of her neck with your fing…. ahhhh…. Right. Like that.”

He kept his eyes open by force of will as Sherlock’s fingers ghosted over the skin on his shoulders and began to lightly work the muscles on the back of his neck. Christ that felt nice! Sherlock seemed to know exactly where to work him to make him boneless.

“This next part might be hard,” John said, voice catching as he took a step closer to Sherlock and wedged himself between the firm thighs, telling his twitching cock to behave itself. “Eye contact.”

“I really thought you’d be teaching me how to use my tongue to kiss more effectively,” Sherlock complained. “I don’t need to court Helen, I just want to kiss her.”

“No, what you want is to get in her firm’s private forensics lab,” John said. Sherlock’s hand on the back of his neck tightened as John leaned down and pressed his lips against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, lingering there, pretending that the smell of Sherlock’s cologne wasn’t more stimulating than the scent of feminine perfume. It was much more of a struggle to stay in teacher mode than he’d imagined it would be. “Look at me,” he whispered.

Sherlock slowly turned his head and looked into John’s eyes as John drew his thumb slowly down Sherlock’s mouth, pulling his bottom lip downward, then releasing it and stroking his face with his fingertips.

“ _Now_ you tell her something romantic,” John said, voice just above a whisper. “After the warm-up kiss, while you have direct eye contact.”

They were so close together that John could see the fine capillaries in Sherlock’s eyes and the small spot on his jaw he had missed while shaving. Sherlock – Christ! – was Sherlock blushing? 

“Go on,” he murmured. “Something romantic to set the mood before you kiss her again.”

“I – I love you, John!” Sherlock blurted out.

John froze. He felt warmth creeping up his neck as he stood in place, brain frozen, trying to formulate a response.

“Um,” he said at last. He still felt unaccountably warm, both inside and outside. Odd. “Best not start off with a declaration of love if you haven’t even kissed yet.”

“No?” Sherlock almost looked befuddled. John had never seen that particular look on Sherlock’s face before.

“No.” John lowered his mouth again and pressed a kiss, open-mouthed and lingering, on Sherlock’s chin. “Try again.”

“Ah – again. Again would be nice.”

Again _would_ be nice, thought John. It had been quite a while since he’d had a satisfying romantic encounter. He’d pinned a lot of hope on Eva – too much, obviously. That was why kissing Sherlock was doing this to him. The close proximity of any person, even someone pressing against him on the crowded street, was likely to make him combust.

“Sherlock….” John kissed the opposite corner of his mouth, noting that Sherlock was largely unresponsive, though he seemed to be trembling. “An _appropriate_ romantic remark?”

“Your eyes,” Sherlock said, as if inspiration had suddenly flooded his soul. “I love your eyes. They’re as blue as the sea and sparkle like the sun dancing on the waves. When I look into your eyes, I lose myself in you. I try to work out the paradox of the universe but I can never determine where you begin and I end.”

John blinked. 

And blinked again.

“Alright. That was…good. That was good.” He swallowed, and Sherlock looked away. “Except – well, aren’t Helen’s eyes brown?”

“Are they?” said Sherlock. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” John licked suddenly dry lips. “Alright – I suppose we should get on to the actual kissing part. Just don’t say they’re as blue as the sea, right? Maybe as dark as a bottomless well.”

“I’m not fond of wells,” Sherlock said, frowning. “Actually, I’m not fond of brown eyes at all. Are you certain hers are brown?”

John tried picturing Helen in his mind. Her eyes certainly weren’t the feature he’d have mentioned, given that she wore round glasses that were so small you could hardly see her eyes behind them. But his overall impression was of dark spots on her face.

He changed tactics.

“Tell her she makes you happy. Tell her you love her smile. I don’t know, Sherlock, tell her you can’t stop thinking about her.”

“Right.” Sherlock flashed a brief, painful smile. “I can do that. Are you going to kiss me now?”

He smiled again, this time with what looked like trepidation rather than pain, and John held his gaze for a long moment, then smiled back.

Time to put them both out of their misery, he thought. Time to stop delaying, do the thing, and get back to sleep.

“Alright,” he said. “Yeah. I’m going to kiss you now.”

He touched Sherlock’s face, resting his hand lightly against his cheek, and, without further comment, pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. His eyes closed on their own, and with them closed, he could imagine he was kissing anyone – any of the women he’d dated, any of the women he’d wanted. He could imagine the lips that began to move beneath his, responding to the pressure, were Eva’s lips, or Holly’s, or Sarah’s, or Lucille’s.

He could, but he couldn’t. He might have, but he didn’t. 

There was no way – no possible way – that he could ever equate the feel of these lips, this tongue, this mouth, with anyone other than Sherlock.

He didn’t know when Sherlock’s hand landed on his waist, and he wasn’t absolutely convinced, once Sherlock started kissing him back, that he’d learned his interesting and downright lascivious kissing style from YouTube.

He really didn’t have time to think about it, though, nor brain cells enough to process rational thought. He was too busy sucking on Sherlock’s tongue, which was penetrating dangerously close to his tonsils. He’d never, not once in his life, had a tongue this long and supple in his mouth and he groaned – he literally _groaned_ \- thinking of where else he’d like that tongue to work.

Sherlock’s other hand was on his arse now, pulling him forward until he had to drop his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to keep upright. 

“You’re –Jesus Christ – Sherlock …. _fuck!_ ” John’s attempts to take back control of the lesson failed abysmally as Sherlock released his tongue with a parting swipe at his gums.

“This is much more fun than practicing with the skull,” Sherlock proclaimed, throwing an arm over John’s shoulders and pulling him forward. 

The skull? That was … disturbing.

Nevertheless, they tumbled onto the bed together, and somehow John was straddling Sherlock, breathing hard and desperately trying to get his bearings.

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock said, shifting a bit and rolling his hips, which did nothing for John’s burgeoning erection. “Close proximity to another person in an intimate setting, no matter that there is no romantic attraction, can cause spontaneous erections. It doesn’t mean anything.”

John recognized those words – he’d used similar words with Sherlock during the waltzing lesson. He’d had a chance then, but he hadn’t taken advantage of it. There was too much on the line then – he was too invested in Mary, and the wedding, and a peaceful life in the suburbs. 

“It doesn’t?” he asked, settling his arse firmly on Sherlock’s crotch and scooting back and forth to get comfortable. 

“Well – I won’t have to worry about it – with Helen, I mean.”

“Right. She doesn’t have one, does she?” John asked, bending forward and grasping Sherlock’s hands, then pressing them down into the mattress.

“I suppose not,” Sherlock answered. “Rather convenient, isn’t that?”

“Except – how will you know when she’s turned on? When she’s ready?” asked John as he nibbled on Sherlock’s earlobe. Sherlock quivered – he _quivered_ \- and John kissed his way back to Sherlock’s mouth.

“I – I have absolutely no idea.” Sherlock was thrusting his hips up against John now, stretching his neck to give John more room to work. “Nipple erections, I suppose?”

John couldn’t help it. He dropped down and buried his face into Sherlock’s neck, wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders and laughed.

“You’re ridiculous. You’re absolutely ridiculous – and devious, I might add. You have absolutely no intention of doing _anything_ with Helen, you dolt!”

Sherlock’s arms encircled John and his fingers worked into the waistband of his jeans once again. “I really did want to learn how to kiss,” he said, voice oh-so-soft. “I really did watch YouTube videos.”

“Only you could watch YouTube videos on kissing and immediately become the world’s best kisser,” John said, working his hand between them to rest beside the bulge in Sherlock’s cotton pajama bottoms. He lifted his hips and grasped Sherlock’s cock, moving his hand quickly up to the tip and eliciting a moan from Sherlock that almost did him in. “I thought you didn’t _do_ this, Sherlock. You never….”

“I don’t. I didn’t. Never the right time, the right person.”

“But…?”

“Well, you’ve had so many abject failures of late – from Penny to Bonnie to Eva – that I thought – well, I thought the time might be right.”

John scooted down until his mouth was just above Sherlock’s crotch. He hooked his thumbs in the pajamas and pulled them down until a perfectly lovely cock, something Helen absolutely did not possess, was exposed. It was surprisingly thick and beautifully flushed.

“Kissing isn’t just for lips,” he said, dipping his head to mouth Sherlock’s bollocks. He grasped the base of Sherlock’s cock and took the tip into his mouth, kissing it reverently before working more length into his mouth. Christ, Sherlock tasted marvelous – John had obviously been missing a lot by limiting himself to one half of the population. Sherlock’s fingers worked into his neck and shoulders and he moaned as John continued to swallow him. John wondered if he could quit his job and make a living sucking Sherlock’s cock. 

“You can do this to me when I finish you off,” John said, slipping his mouth off and wrapping his hand around the hard length, squeezing and twisting as Sherlock tightened his thighs and gripped his shoulders harder. 

“Or -” Sherlock hissed as John got back to fellating, then let out a sound that was halfway between a leaky tire and a breathless moan when John’s fingers slid under his t-shirt and grazed over a nipple. “Or I – I could use my tongue – somewhere else. I under – understand – John! Stop – no – more – more! – that kissing isn’t just … just for lips.” He almost keened as John began a relentless attack on his nipple moving up and down on his cock with his decidedly sinful mouth. “I watched – watched a YouTube video…”

John nearly came in his jeans at the thought. He cupped Sherlock’s bollocks and caressed his perineum, sucked mercilessly on the head of his cock, and squeezed the nipple just to the cusp of pain. 

He was rewarded by Sherlock coming completely undone – orgasming with the force of a tropical cyclone, grabbing John’s head and trying to force him down and pull him off all at the same time, and letting out a scream that would surely have Mrs. Hudson, and possibly the homicide unit of New Scotland Yard, at their door within minutes.

“And you thought teaching me to kiss was a bad idea,” Sherlock managed a few minutes later, after John had pulled down his jeans and, with a few quick pulls, all the while staring into Sherlock’s eyes and telling him just exactly what he was going to do to him _next_ time, spent himself all over his lover’s chest.

“Did I say that?” John asked, snuggling in against Sherlock’s back and kissing him between his shoulder blades.

“You always say that,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, I won’t say it anymore,” John promised. “Unless – ”

“Unless?”

“Unless you go on again about kissing Helen.”

“Who’s Helen?” murmured Sherlock.

“Did you delete Helen?” asked John, speaking low in Sherlock’s ear as his hands busied themselves mapping the plump contours of Sherlock’s lovely arse.

“If you say so,” Sherlock said with a yawn.

“I say so.” John, yawning. He closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep.

But falling asleep in bed with Sherlock Holmes – the same Sherlock Holmes who’d watched far too many YouTube videos in preparation for John’s seduction – was a very bad idea indeed.


End file.
